


Blue Skies Shine Above You

by cm (mumblemutter)



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Age Difference, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-14
Updated: 2009-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-03 02:48:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mumblemutter/pseuds/cm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>McCoy is twenty-one. Kirk is fifteen. Things happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blue Skies Shine Above You

**Day One:**

Twelve hours into a thirty-six hour shift that will probably end up at sixty, and this kid comes in with a busted lip and a bleeding scalp. McCoy scans him first, confirms no internal injury or concussion, then starts patching him up. "What's your name, kid?" He glances at the scanner. "Tiberius? Where are your medical records? Nurs-"

"No need to call her, it's not her fault. I'm from Risis Five. You know how they are - my history will probably be updated ten years from my grave."

"Uh-huh. Any drug allergies, illnesses-"

"None. Hoonestly - I'll be fine. Just banged up a little."

"Contact info's not here either. Need your parents," McCoy holds the boy's hair with one hand and pushes his head back.

The boy blinks through dried blood on his lashes, "No, really," he says. "Contacting my parents isn't necessary. I mean, the bike took most of the hit. Besides, I'm over eighteen."

Twelve hours into a thirty-six hour shift, and McCoy has no time for this shit. "What kind of bike?"

"Classic Yama-"

"Yeah, fine. Whatever, I don't care." Classic bike means army brat, they're all into this shit nowadays, means he's definitely not eighteen, means he shouldn't be here, means if McCoy were less exhausted he'd call someone to pick the kid up, means right now, as it stands, he could give a fuck about proper protocol and all he really wants is to make it through the rest of the shift so he can get a goddamned drink, means he releases the kid's newly patched up head, says gruffly, "Don't ever come back here - you have the finest Starfleet doctors at your disposal. Use them. Right now you're just taking up space for someone who actually needs it and not just because they don't want their parents to find out they were joyriding without a license."

The kid opens his mouth, but McCoy's already walking away.

+

James Tiberius Kirk (a lie that's close to the truth; the kid's good), or "Jimmy," the base's resident doctor-on-call tells him, when McCoy finally gets around to filing the report, or maybe just his conscience gets the better of him. "What did he do now?" He says this with the weary tone of the often put upon and utterly wronged, but then again Beecher always sounded like this, so who knows. He's better than the green-blooded goblin that was his predecessor though. Damn Vulcans and their insistence on protocol.

"Said he crashed his Yamaha. Not sure he's legal enough to ride though, so who knows. Injuries seem to match. Sending the file over now."

"He's fifteen and some change, so most likely not. This is new though. Hope it's not his stepfather's again."

"Yeah," But he's not really paying attention anymore. "You best take a look at him, see how he's doing. Kid booked it before we could discharge him out. I'm sure his stepfather will be distraught if something happens to his son at such a tender age."

Beecher sighs heavily, "I'll take care of it. Hey McCoy, when are you going to lower yourself to join us in the ranks. Starfleet could always use a bright young doctor like you."

"What, and ruin my good looks with that uniform? Blue's never been my color. Washes out my eyes, or so I'm told. Later, Beech." He cuts off the line, and after Beecher sends him back the kid's medical history, McCoy shoves it into the system and closes the case.

**Day Five:**

There's a bar down the street from the hospital that's run by an Andorian who hates doctors, most especially human ones, which means that McCoy spends almost all his free time there, which isn't a lot, to be sure, but if you drink fast enough you can get wasted pretty damned quick, is what he's learnt, seeing as how they don't water down their drinks as much as they do everywhere else he's tried.

Eventually the Andorian, whose name McCoy doesn't ever learn, stops glaring disdainfully at him quite as much. Toleration is the best McCoy hopes for, most days. That, and Andorian Ale, which he'll be hard pressed to beat anywhere else. He's on his fifth shot when a body sidles up next to him, and usually he's game for just about anyone sidling up to him when he's on the fifth, but this face he recognizes. Startled, that he does, because usually they fade away in about a day or so. "James Kirk," he says softly, and that's a surprise too.

The kid smiles. "Glad to see you remember me. I certainly remember you. Hey Theylen, can I get the usual, please?"

McCoy frowns at him. "You're not old enough to drink."

"Technically. Personally I find the human laws on drinking archaic - did you know the Sheeras insist that their young get inebriated the minute they turn eight? Well, some of them anyway. Then there was a war and - " he waves his hand around airily. "It's a good thing the right side won, that's all I'll say about that."

The drink he ordered arrives, far more quickly than anything McCoy's ever did, and he grabs the glass, raises it in a toast. "This is to you, Dr. McCoy. No hard feelings, by the way, to you ratting me out to the doc. I know you were only doing your job." He drapes one arm around McCoy's shoulder and squeezes him hard before throwing back the shot with the gusto of someone used to throwing back shots and not worrying about the aftereffects, and his breath is sweet when he leans in to whisper in McCoy's ear, "I knew I'd recognized you from somewhere. But I'm always at the corner booth, I guess you never noticed me."

"I guess not." He tries to extricate himself politely, and then not so politely, but then Jim lets him go abruptly to pat him on the back. "Look, if you don't mind."

"No, of course not." The smile he gives McCoy is warm and bright, and strangely broken. "I'd go for the brunette tonight if I were you. Blond looks like he's got anger management issues." His fingers are soft on McCoy's jawline, "Don't want you to ruin that pretty face of yours."

McCoy scowls. "I don't do different species."

"Why Dr. McCoy, I do believe you're a xenophobe."

"It's not xenophobia, kid. It's self-preservation."

"Sure." And then he's gone, and McCoy only lets his eyes wander the place for him every half hour or so, until he makes eye contact with the blond, and never let it be said that he wasn't a stubborn son-of-a-bitch, or so every ex of his ever claimed.

Turns out James Tiberious Kirk is right, but McCoy's got anger management issues of his own, so that works out in the end.

**Day Twelve:**

Jocelyn leaves him a message that he ignores for once - that they're off again usually means he makes the effort to call her back, and if a part of him (small, tiny part) tells him that that's kind of fucked up, well.

He's pretty good at ignoring shit that's inconvenient to think about.

Such as: James T Kirk being the second message on the machine. _Dr. McCoy, my man, you're a hard doctor to track down. Okay that's a lie, it was ridiculously easy and you need better security, my good friend, fuck is this thing one of those old fashioned ones that's gonna cut me off - beep_

And the third: _They do make answering machines for the twenty-third century you know. Some of them even give you the option to transfer to the nearest comm that's available. Or your personal comm frequency. Not that I found out what that number was either, or anything, plus I'd never disturb you what with you busy saving lives and so fo- beep_

And the fourth: _Fuck this motherfucking shit, Leonard. But hey, at least I know what to get you for your birthday. Call me back. We'll do lunch. I know a great place serves burgers as thick as my forearm._

The small, tiny part of him has this to say right now: Ignore the message. Ignore the boy. An underaged Starfleet brat on your back is the last thing you need right now. Or ever, in fact. You're a damn fool for even thinking about this.

McCoy takes a deep breath and opens his mouth.

**Day fifteen:**

That the restaurant is more a tucked away diner on the edge of the mining town proper isn't a surprise. That it serves Earth food is - one thing McCoy's found, even on the colonies with a Starfleet presence, the further away from any sort of base one got, the further away from anything even closely resembling human everything was, up to and including the food. Not that he minded so much, food was food, so long as the menu stated what was fit for human consumption and what would cause one's insides to crawl up through one's throat and spray an interesting array of blood and digestive juices onto the nearest wall, he was fine.

It doesn't mean he doesn't appreciate home food though. Even if it is served by a brightly attired Tarquin whose antennae seems to quiver disapprovingly at him before she dumps the plates on their table and glides away. He's instantly starving, and just as instantly homesick. Jim doesn't seem to notice though, he just grabs his burger and tucks in heartily. "So basically," he says, after a while, waving a thick fry around. "You work too hard."

"I'm an intern. That's part of the job description." McCoy sips his coffee and wonders if maybe he should have had the burger too instead. Jim seems to be having such a good time with his.

"Yes, but all work and no play." He pauses. "Sex would probably help."

"I'll keep that in mind," he replies dryly. Of course, Jim already knows. Getting laid's never been a problem. It's never solved anything either - mostly at this point it's just something to do. Much like drinking: he's certain he's probably better off without either one, but he can't be fucked to change right at this moment.

"Me," Jim corrects mildly. "You should keep me in mind."

McCoy snorts. "You're fifteen."

"Yeah, and when I'm forty you'll be forty-six and no-one will care. Besides," he leans closer conspiratorially and stage-whispers into McCoy's ear. "I won't tell if you won't. I mean, can't have you here be all lonely and shit. Did you know that doctors on off-world colonies have the highest suicide rates in the Federation?"

"I'm not about to kill myself, but thanks for your concern. And I'm hardly lonely."

"Everyone's lonely, Leonard."

McCoy grins, but his hour is up and the food's suddenly not quite as good as he'd thought it was. Much like almost everything else, once the first flush of excitement is over, one realizes it's just the same swill with better additives. "I gotta go back to the hospital," he says, and the kid's smile fades abruptly. "Do you want a ride?"

"No. I'd like you to stay for a while though." His voice is almost petulant, but McCoy doesn't have time for this.

"You can stay. I'm out."

Back at Mercy he pulls ten hours without stopping, runs on adrenaline and caffeine, and when he has a break he smiles at a freshie nurse who stops in her tracks to smile tentatively back, and when she lets him lead her to the supply closet he fucks her against the wall, one hand braced on a steel rack and the other one wrapped around her waist. He thinks of Jim when he comes, dizzy and bright, the sky-blues and the cocky grin and the jaw that's only just learnt what a shaver is, but then she's shuddering around him, and it goes away.

**Day twenty:**

The knock on his door drags him out of an alcohol-induced sleep, and he's about to ream the asshole who dared, but it's Jim, small and shivering from the rain and with a face that's barely recognizable. He looks so pathetic McCoy can't even find it in him to yell, and eventually he sighs and waves him on in. "I love how you genuinely had to think about allowing me to come in," Jim says, after throwing himself on McCoy's couch, wet clothes and all.

"I love how you just decide to come to my home uninvited. Get off my couch. No, not there. The kitchen stool. For heaven's sake, man are you trying to destroy all my furniture?"

Jim takes the offered stool, but says, "You could get me some new clothes. I'm kind of freezing here." Lightly, but he's shivering and his teeth are chattering. Devena rains are a bitch and a hypothermic nightmare, everyone knows that.

"It could be argued that the damn fool that runs around in nothing but a sweatshirt and jeans during a rainstorm deserves to get hypothermia and meet a richly deserving end." Fuck it, though. McCoy rummages through his closet until he finds some things that'll fit close enough, tosses it to Jim together with a towel. "Bathroom's to the left. Get dried and changed, and call me when you're done I'll fix that eye up for you."

Five minutes later and he's patching up the kid's eye as he perches on the bathroom sink, bare-shirted and still shivering slightly. "Should have put on the sweatshirt I gave you."

"I didn't want to get bloodstains on your clothes."

"How very thoughtful of you."

"James T Kirk: I aim to please."

McCoy runs his thumb on the underside of Jim's cheek, feels for anything broken that he might have missed. The sharp intake of breath stills him for a second, but only a second, and Jim exhales quietly when McCoy eventually lets his hand drop. "You're good," he says, and is surprised that his voice is rough. "I'm not your personal physician. Next time you get into some fight with some kids at school because they called you a wuss or whatever it is that kids call one another these days, go somewhere else."

"My stepfather gets pissed when I come home banged up."

"Gee, I wonder why." He doesn't threaten to call the guy up though, tell him what his son has been up to, even though he probably should. Is probably legally obliged to. But at least the boy's not awkwardly hitting on him, so that's a plus, and maybe he'll stop now. Besides, he's nobody's fucking guardian and the kid's not his problem, no matter how messed up he might be.

"Hey, hey." Jim's hand is on his shoulder suddenly, and his face is serious. "Thanks, okay. Dude. Thanks."

"Yeah, sure." Strange, this kid. If McCoy could bring himself to care more, he'd wonder why someone he instinctively knows is so bright is so determined to fuck himself up. But he can't, and besides, he's fifteen. Probably he'll outgrow it, just like everyone else does eventually.

"Could use a place to sleep."

"Couch is yours." But Jim is already jumping lightly down, brushing past him into the living room, falling down into the cushions as if they were his own. McCoy sighs, and goes to get a heating blanket.

**Day thirty-seven:**

If he didn't know better he'd think that Jim is stalking him. But of course that's unlikely, because he's only been to this particular bar twice before, both in the last couple of days, and neither time did he see hide nor hair of that dirty-blond head, but here he is, right as McCoy's stumbling in, desperate for a drink because he lost two miners today in an accident that was almost certainly avoidable (much like almost all the "accidents" in the mine, they could have well been avoided with proper training and equipment, but that's not his job, his job is just to patch them up and send them back out). Bright as the summer rain that this godforsaken planet only rarely gets, even as his face is being pummeled by a hard, heavy fist.

It's over soon enough, the bouncer grabs him with one hand and the body attached to the fist with another, and Jim has enough time to grin bloodily at him as he's being trundled past, "Heya Leo," before they're both tossed unceremoniously out into the street.

McCoy watches the door until it closes, then turns and goes to find an empty seat at the bar. Two hours later, when he finally drags himself away and stumbles his way into thin, cold air, he can't quite convince himself that he's surprised that Jim is leaning against the wall, all the world as if he just randomly happened to be there. McCoy sways into him, says the first thing that pops into his head, "Tell me where it hurts, son."

Jim laughs, and then winces when his lip splits open again, and then laughs again. "Everywhere, dude. But you can kiss it, Doctor, and make it go away."

"Okay," McCoy says.

And so he does.

And that's how they end up, pressed against a wall just outside of the streetlights, his hands around Jim's shoulders and Jim's hands on his waist and under his pants. "Stop," he's sure he says, at some point, "Fuck. Fuck." But then Jim's kissing him again, soft bitingly sweet, and his fingers are wrapped around him, and McCoy says "Fuck", again, and comes.

**Day forty:**

"So how'd you end up on this shitheel of a planet anyway?" Jim is flat on soft green grass, one hand under his head and the other clutched around a bottle of Antarean brandy that McCoy made noises about until Jim shut him up with a _are you fucking kidding me?_ look. Mostly because the bottle was his, stolen from his apartment surreptitiously and only displayed proudly by a beaming Jim when they'd reached here.

"What can I say, kid. I always wanted to see the stars."

"Pssh. Everyone and their dog gets to see the stars nowadays. It's like saying you've always wanted to move to the next block. Only in this case it'd be like moving into the ghetto next door."

"This planet is one of the most economically indispensible and culturally influential colonies of the Federation - you should know that, being a Starfleet brat and all."

"Yammer yammer yammer. Here's what being a Starfleet brat earns you. A lesson in what the truth is and what they put on the shiny video feeds they like to send everyone on Earth. I figured that one out when I was about six."

"Never the twain shall meet." McCoy shrugs, and grabs the bottle from Jim before settling down on the grass himself. He'd resisted sitting down, grumbled about having to go on duty in another ten hours, but Jim insisted that this was the best fucking view in the entire planet and he couldn't believe that McCoy had never been there. Reason being of course: it was private property and they were trespassing.

Not that Jim wasn't right about the view being spectacular. McCoy's realizing, and fast, that Jim has a tendency to be right about a lot of things.

"So?"

"I'm an intern. I don't get a choice." Which isn't, technically speaking, true. He's probably the only stupid sonofabitch dumb enough to ask to intern here, rather than being involuntarily assigned. Most times, he can't even figure out why. Jocelyn approves, believes he's being altruistic, that she's dating a man with a purpose in life greater than most. He lets her believe it because it's easier than arguing, and easier than trying to explain what his real motivations are. Which, if he's honest with himself, he's not entirely sure of. He hates the stars, hates the dead futility of space, hates that his father was right and all that's out here is more of the same wrapped up in the romanticism of the vague unknown. Hates that of all the different ways to die, the one that's the most common is constant throughout the known universe: poverty, disease, and lack of resources.

Life is cheap, it would seem, no matter what you were.

Jim only lifts his eyebrow, but after a while he just shrugs and lets it go. "Don't drink all the ale, okay?"

**Day forty-eight:**

It's not that he feels that they're at the stage of their relationship (such as it is), that he needs or even wants to visit Jim's house. "It's not a home," he tells McCoy with some annoyance. "Just where we happen to be stationed at right at this moment. Home's Iowa - not that it's much better."

His lip curls up, and McCoy _mmhmms_ sympathetically, not quite processing or registering it. Mostly he's wondering why he agreed to come here in the first place, other than that he wasn't paying much attention either when Jim extended the invitation, and now he's stuck. And also because Jim can be insistent when he wants to be. "Your mom's pretty," he says instead, peering at the pictures displayed on the mantlepiece.

"Aw, man. Don't say that okay we don't need to be going there."

"Just stating a fact. You should take it as a compliment."

"Yeah, well. Everyone always says I look like my dad. Who's not the dude in the pictures, so don't go there." He doesn't choose to elaborate on that, and from the scowl on his face McCoy decides not to ask. He's uncomfortable enough being in this house, with its Starfleet-issued everything save for the pictures and random objects that were clearly only there so the place felt more like a home that belonged to someone rather than a pit-stop on the way to somewhere else. "She's on the Excalibur. Far, far away from here."

"Your brother's pretty hot too," and he meant it to be funny, but then again he's always been good at being inappropriate, apparently, because Jim's face cracks, almost crumbles. He only puts a hand on McCoy's cheek though, soft and whisper light, and McCoy grabs his wrist, flattens the back of his hand so he can kiss his fingers, slowly, until Jim shudders and closes his eyes.

James T Kirk's bedroom is pretty neat for a fifteen year old. Hot rods and hot girls and a map of _The Alpha Centauri System_, surprisingly enough, taking up half a wall. McCoy wants to make commentary, but Jim kisses him, hard and insistent, and pulls him to the bed, and he decides talking can wait.

**Day fifty-five:**

"You drink too much," Jim says, but his own voice is slurred and he can barely walk so McCoy feels good about ignoring him to launch into a spiel about the dangers of underaged drinking, which makes Jim snarl and call him a hypocrite. McCoy points to the door, and is mildly surprised when Jim takes his cue, snarling under his breath and slamming the door loudly behind him.

"Fuck it," McCoy says, but he doesn't want to be alone tonight so he drags himself down to the pub and picks up a sweet young thing with cherry-red lips that clash with her purple hair. She says her name is Linda, and she works in the mines, "Accounting, mostly," but then she's riding him and he's closing his eyes, letting it all drown out.

**Day sixty-eight:**

He's getting off shift and there's a familiar skinny frame perched on the hood of his car, and it's been a while (thirteen days, his mind helpfully provides), though not long enough for Jim to look older, even though that's exactly how he looks. Older, and tired, and even his trademark grin isn't so bright. "Get off," McCoy says gruffly, and Jim slides easily down, his body effortlessly pressing itself up against McCoy's in the process.

McCoy's hand is on his hip before he knows it, and Jim's breath is bubblegum pink and candy and he's whispering sweetly, "Leonard, come on. Leo," and McCoy uses his free hand to jerk the car door open and practically shoves him in. Driving home though, he looks impossibly young, curled up in the passenger seat, and finally McCoy just pulls over and turns the engine off. "Look, kid. I don't know what you want from me, okay?"

"What makes you think I want anything from you?"

"Let me finish. If you're looking for that guy - your father figure or whatever, I ain't him."

"Aw man, dude. Come on, why does everything have to be such a fucking big deal? Can't we just fuck and not talk? More fucking, less talking. That's gonna be my motto. You can drink yourself to death if you want from now on."

"Uh-huh."

"No, I swear. I'll just keep my mouth shut from now on."

"We'll make peace with the Klingons first, I feel." He raises a brow, and Jim smiles, only slightly sheepishly. McCoy enjoys it for a while, and then kisses him hard.

**Day ninety:**

The problem is: the alcohol's not the problem. It's the everything else that's the problem. It's the fifty hours of "alien physiology" classes that were the only compulsory part of his curriculum, very little of which are relevant here, which means he spends half his time with one hand inside someone's body and the other half screaming at the computer to throw up something, anything useful, while said someone bleeds out.

It's that even when they get the physiology right, there's very little knowledge of customs and rituals, and even the so-called Cultural Officer is wringing her hands and going, "Well I'm not certain if they're part of the tribe that considers the touch of an outsider as irreversible contamination, but it's too late for that, isn't it?"

It's not enough medicine, not enough of the right kind of medicine. It's outdated tech and not enough staff and not enough people who care. It's not enough, period, and McCoy's not inclined, nor is he ever going to be inclined, to explain this to Jim, who, true to his word, doesn't say a word about the drinking anymore, but somehow manages to make his disapproval known in a myriad of other, small but highly irritating ways.

All of it means he's already on edge when Jim skids his bike off a highway and almost ends up in two hundred pieces at the bottom of a ravine, with only luck and the stubborn ability to cling to the edge of a piece of rock that keeps him alive.

And so McCoy loses it. He yells, and thumps things, and shakes his fist, but mostly he yells, as Jim sits silently at the table, face slowly turning darker than the bruises that liberally litter it.

"Are you quite done," he says, when McCoy finally stops to take in a shaky breath.

"No, I'm not, dammit I'm only getti-"

"You are not my father."

"No, if I were I would knock some sense into your damned stupid head."

"Perhaps if he weren't dead he'd agree with you."

"Perhaps if he weren't dead I wouldn't have to deal with your fucking daddy issues and hold your hand while you bleed all ov-" It's only because he's so intent on his anger that he doesn't see the fist coming towards him. The blow knocks him cleanly onto the floor, he he stays there for a while, blinks until he can see again and the world stops spinning. Kid has a mean right hook, that's for sure.

By the time he staggers to his feet Jim's already gone, the door slammed accusingly shut behind him. "Fuck," he says out loud, to no-one in particular. "Fuck it all to hell."

**Day one hundred and seven:**

_So, yeah. I hope your jaw is allright. But hey, you're a doctor so I guess you can heal yourself. Your bedside manner's terrible though, and I hope you take this as a lesson learned. Anyway, you can call me back if you want._

It's as close to an apology as he'll get, one he doesn't quite deserve, a message left on the machine that he ignores for two weeks until one morning when he asks the computer to call the number back, and he putters around the kitchen while it does, making himself a breakfast that for once doesn't consist of coffee and a nutrition pack.

"I'm sorry sir, the number you've called has been disconnected."

"What do you mean, disconnected."

"According to our records, the Kirk family left Deneva Prime one week and four days ago. There is a forwarding address, would you like us to patch you through if possible?"

McCoy stills in the middle of scrambling his eggs. Briefly, before he says, "No, that's not necessary. Thanks."

He has breakfast on the patio, for the first time in months. At the very least, it doesn't look like rain.


End file.
